


A city I named after you

by Tiefschwarz



Category: Winternight Series - Katherine Arden
Genre: Angst, Introspection, Longing, Lost Love, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Reminiscing, Sadness, Trickster Gods, WE COULD HAVE HAD IT ALL, could have been, lament, remembrance can be a sentence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 20:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiefschwarz/pseuds/Tiefschwarz
Summary: It was destroying him in slow, precise motion, a finest torture for an immortal, a motion that had no place and no valid excuse in his existence of a chaos god. So why did it hurt so much, hurt in an almost human way, rendering him weak and useless?A Medved x Konstantin the Priest could-have-been show of lost chances.





	A city I named after you

**Author's Note:**

> Winternight's third book had me undone with the particular relationship between these two [or rather, a relationship that never happened T_T] to such I point I had to desperately write this one out. Nomadic Medved, post-canon, reminiscence is the best/worst punishment.

He was dreaming, a dream soft and distant, more of an emotion then an actual even if imagined event, a fleeting sense of exasperation, a hand grasping on empty air, an unseeing eye awakened by bright summer sun – a memory of things unhappened.

Such was his state, a purgatory between distict shapes and flimsy sensations, when Vasya broke the spell only to have him immediately bound anew – yet now to serve her. Afterwards he wasn’t sure he could actually let go of the dream - even amidst the wildest of fights, the cruelest of bloodsheds that he orchestrated and the vilest of tricks he made his pawns perform. 

The dream and the myriad of emotions associated with it were beginning to worry him – in a way an age-old trickster spirit could even be bothered to experience worry.  
This was unsettling – a creeping persistent feeling that could not be combated with infliction of mass madness or carnage or basking in the sticky fear crawling along the dark streets. 

Medved could formerly easily switch to any of those delightful activities - yet a battle for his attention was simply and spectacularly lost in those streets when the dead were walking alive and the priest chose a self-sacrifice over a life of splendor.

***  
This returning sensation felt painfully an integral part of himself, the restless memories wandering back to that rainy eventide and Morozko’s cruel indifference and Konstantin’s blood running swiftly through Medved’s fingers, over and over again the picture unraveling in front of Medved ’s single seeing eye, the illusion more powerful than even the sparks of solid reality.

The memory – or the feeling? Both had been ingrained deep within his core someplace Medved wasn’t aware even existed – and both were tormenting him from within. The irony was glaringly present in this – he had previously imprisoned his abhorring brother in a place of interminable joy and adoration, a place that reeked power and old magic, an everlasting celebration of respect – and here he himself got one small eternity of agony as a reward. So much for dealing with sassy witches and their brooding lovers.

They had known of course. Even if they hadn’t planned on that consciously – but judging from Vasya’s impudent questions and Morozko’s emotioneless serenity heavily laced with unsaid jibes Medved couldn’t stop from mentally hearing nonetheless – they knew it ever since Konstantin had slit his own throat. 

Medved had been fooled by thinking he still had time – when in reality he had none left, and the actual plague was not among the moscovites but in his guts instead – readily faking a pretense of omnipotence, a gleeful carefree sensation, a festive drunkenness – cut abruptly into shreds, the remnants of Konstantin’s life drenching his body, and Morozko shaking his head in denying the quiet plea.

Medved suddenly found himself quite capable of pleading, asking, praying – the actions he had thought were more becoming of a priest than of the Death’s own twin brother. Yet he was too late to learn that – so no dead water could be granted for the dead body in his arms, and should you ever be so cunning to get to the rotten body afterwards – then use it as you please, play it as a puppet – but no dead water to heal the wounds, why would a trickster even deserve a droplet of it, Medved thought to himself as he cut his palm and provided Vasya with the water of life she needed oh so much to save her brother. 

The undeserving, his brother again found a way to outmatch him in a contest they didn’t establish – the contest that presented itself with a witch who didn’t know any better and a priest who knew. 

A priest who knew all of these wicked tricks and rightfully feared them and was so delectable and so immense in his attitude and raging emotion – and then went and confused Medved for his god.

And it was suddenly not anymore a foolish joke Medved could play for ages with a variety of his blinded followers. There was golden hair and sky-blue eyes ablaze with such a striking sense of wonderment laced with crippling fear, agony mixed with utmost worship - and the hands that painted the life unknown to Medved – and it was a joke no more.

He was called out for being a god – and he acted as one with all the intensity and versatility of his abilities. He had enjoyed the show and the adoration until it was too late – the frame of the priest too fragile within his seemingly agile and strong body, too plump the lips he bit when concentrated on the painting, too alluring, inviting, unnerving – and Medved was a god, Konstantin’s own god, a trusted higher power, eagerly awaited and joyfully invited – so why did he not?..

Why did he stop upon having tasted Konstantin and having known this mortal crave? Why was he yet again devoted to the big scheme, the dead dancing in the fountains of his transparent burning blood, the witch confused and angry – oh, that one to make Konstantin react, uncover his own wild entity that was regularly and carefully hidden beneath the layers of authority of a priest – what was the point of that success? The freedom?

His single eye squinted apprehensively at the uneasy and unwelcome thought. He had awoken a thunderstorm within one frail human and was one hand grab away from containing it, mastering it and riding the lightning – that wild fire within Konstantin that allowed him to create life in the otherwise seemingly lifeless paintings. 

The uneducated sorry mess of scared people considered those wooden panels with faces and figures on them holy – and frighteningly, in this respect Medved was nearing dangerously close to their excited whimpers of witnessing a wonder – as he had been touched by the marvel of paint gone alive himself, touched in a foreign and probably self-destructing way.

Confined under the oak again, golden bridle tight around his neck (his heart?) maiming him with continued pressure, Medved could only think of that other sight of pure burning gold to distract himself – that gold had been wet with blood, dark and unrelenting, never his. A scene of betrayal, a god fallen down, his metaphorical golden statue crashed into same golden dust – why was it painful even to recollect? It shouldn’t have been so. 

***  
Just another human choosing the final company of his brother, another escapade gone awry – why bother? The golden dust made Medved sneeze – a good excuse for the sudden hot tears streaming down his disfigured human face.

The golden dust mixing with stale church air - in Medved’s raving mind they’re back in the Woodland, the frost is raging outside and it’s cold, so deadly cold within the small premise that’s supposed to house holy spirits as opposed to the house spirits, them now considered malevolent and virtually nonexistent. 

Another delicious irony Medved had no chance to taste – while it’s cold and the humans were suffering the winter, his own immortal entity was burning on the inside – the flame of a wonderful idea to break free through a simpleton priest obsessed – so what could have possibly gone wrong?

It was one quick movement, his hungry mouth and sharp teeth on Konstantin’s mouth – and Medved never knew what hit him when Konstantin responded – immersed in his own hatred and fear so exquisite Medved could feed off of it alone for centuries – but now he was obsessed too, master of nightmares caught in his own trap – he shouldn’t have waited back then.

Oh no he shouldn’t have waited – Konstantin was open before him, pliant and consenting, ready for all hell to break loose – craving for his own obsession, blinded by a witch that never even noticed him – that part of him Medved fell for and now couldn’t revert back to careless serenity the reign of chaos brought. 

The witch was blind – a mixed blessing, the witch was posing a problem – and yet the witch was keeping the priest aflame, just in a way Medved needed him for his plans… But hell did break loose as those plans were rapidly changing, and the need was not just about a pawn being instrumental anymore. 

It was just that – the need, an overwhelmingly human simple word for a simple yet all-consuming experience – and animalistic craving, interminable hunger arriving with it like thunderclouds storming in Medved’s mind, never ceasing to rage.

A hasty shaky breath worried the solemn silence within the cold church. Konstantin gulped and accepted what Medved had to offer – with his sweet mouth, warm lips, a bodily shiver electrifying both of them and a sense of a strain suddenly, finally - letting go. 

A wild exhilarating liberation manifested in a strangled cry, wet lips searching blindly, longingly – a revelation.

An unexpected and demure response to his intense assault felt like a continued enchantment, Konstantin was shaking violently, catching for breath, frozen air between them no longer uncomfortable but cozily encompassing them in cloudlets of steam as if offering a hiding spot amidst the painted saints. 

A solace, an asulym for the tormented souls, a place of light for the artist to gather that very light with his hands and pour all of it into a new life within his paintings.

A solace within a storm – as Medved was mercilessly biting Konstantin with fervour, making his lips bleed as if his devotion was not enough, as if an asylum was fake all along and the servant had to fight tooth and nail and naked soul eager for his master’s benevolence. 

But with a faintest touch of a cold hand, long fingers searching, quivering and fearful – the spell of dominance was undone as it was no fight but a revelation indeed.  
A heart beating fast yet unrelenting to the horrors awaiting in its shadows, a promise unsaid, a sin so terrible it had always been dangerous to even word it save name out loud. 

Konstantin was kissed by the god – and dared to kiss the god back, touched his maimed face and thus opened up hell. 

There was passion for Medved throughout his long existence, lust and hunger – yet there was no tenderness, no acceptance of his human being which Medved neglected and detested as a useless and hindering part of his self, a chaos god rendered motionless with an agonizing caress of an unsuspecting sinner. 

Konstantin was touching his face with his both cold palms. The breath of life in these hands, somehow, unnatural and uncalled for – quelled their combined rage for a promise of something more than just an asylum. A promise of an adventure, creation, motion – Medved had been restless and angry and now these hands…

***  
…helped him break away from his reverie. Constantinople stood in front of him burning – not with the fires yet, just the sun, and the anxious yearning was back in place. This longing pained him in a fashion he didn’t think he was capable of in the past thousands of years. 

This was a glaring novelty of merciless finality, and passion, and the truth untold – and the flow of time that could not be turned back. Medved watched the sun drown in the streets of Constantinople, so fitting – a spark of life consumed by lifeless constructions, meant to restrain and to hold the spirit imprisoned.

Medved snorted, gave away a mirthless laugh. Was he becoming poetic, sensitive where he shouldn’t be? A monster tamed into an almost mildness, so unbecoming of Vasya’s faithful servant who knew no mercy or restrain. 

The very concept of being forced to proclaim faith to someone suddenly felt strangely rewarding – as if by not betraying her he could win in the past that had long been gone. As if he could have reverted that downpour and wrenched that knife away from Konstantin’s hands.

He very well knew he couldn’t, not anymore, nor in all the roads of Midnight – now welcomed with the paralyzing inability to do a thing, a single thing what with his hands full of translucent blood that gave life, that one time sacred blood unneeded, falling onto the churned earth and wounding it more, sizzling and hot – as hot and scalding as was the notion of his incompetence – or wait is it incompleteness?

It was destroying him in slow, precise motion, a finest torture for an immortal, a motion that had no place and no valid excuse in his existence of a chaos god. So why did it hurt so much, hurt in an almost human way, rendering him weak and useless?

He was learning the ancient and hopeless art of making up excuses and he was being a deft and quick learner – anything and everything to keep on going within the vicious circle of remembrance.

Should his brother know of his condition the possible new imprisonment might not even include the old oak tree in a land securely hidden between winter and spring. There would be no need for hiding or golden restraints – he could do such a formidable job of harnessing himself. Vasya would not even need her witching powers, the golden bridle, her blood or her word to strangle him. He would strangle himself before any of it even happened.

And he would do it gladly. They could be watching the setting sun together – him and warrior witching girl unfit for quiet human life. She could’ve been the one to conquer places where he would wreak havoc and enter her mind with poisonous madness, rendering her defenseless, drowning her in her own power, hell she would probably cheer for him to quicken his ministrations! Ah, an infallible course, an unerring destiny. It could even be his revenge on them both – for having what he couldn’t ever have now.

***  
Or - they could be watching same very sun in different circumstances – him and the artist painting the glory of the golden light entering the bodies and souls of the citizens, slowly but inevitably converting them to his will – to their combined will. 

Konstantin would rejoice, he would chant and hear the crowd cheering his name like an incantation, a promise of eternity granted to their yearning souls, an infinity right in front of them ablaze with gold and forgiveness and understanding and love.

Oh this could’ve been a different sort of madness – creeping slowly and never ever really noticed, the one laced with adoration and exultation, with ecstasy in his wake and roses blooming in his steps – where Medved only left broken bones and souls torn in shreds, Konstantin would’ve nurtured gentle flowers, whole gardens of ethereal delight and sweet delusion.

He would be crowned king among kings, deceiver of all yet master only to the colours in his hands. Those were his hands even more so than his eyes or his hair, Medved was sure of that. And thus he hated it – the intensity of a very human yearning to see Konstantin paint again. 

He could hardly breathe caught up in the illusion, trapped between Constantinople and Rus’, one eye on the setting sun yet endlessly coming back to the Woodland that never happened – a Woodland where Konstantin had accepted him, had allowed him to…

The spirit old as humankind would not dwell deeper, would not go further into the dilapidated old church with foreign gods and angels so weak they couldn’t keep him out, the light so dim it made Konstantin’s hair stand out brighter, with so much more gold, vigour, passion and illness that was his wounded spirit, oozing venomous hatred and delicious fear in such a mix that had Medved taste his own madness, the one he mustered but never could experience.

He knew this madness, now. With Konstantin lost only the memories remained rampant in Medved’s conscious – and that city named after an emperor of yore, a rich and vibrant source of human souls, pliant as clay, acquiescent, delicate and opening up into the sea, a deep expanse to harbour horrors and feed on the slaughter within its waters. A gorgeous place indeed so why couldn’t he just enjoy what the city had to offer?

True to his promise to Vasya, Medved went on traveling the world in hoping the nomadic lust for causing pain in others would avert his thinking from his own wound. It didn’t – and in the end the lasting ache brought him to Constantinople where the lingering memories eventually got the upper hand of him.

It was within the city streets, heavy air filled with multiple odours, the glow of thousand suns – the domes of endless churches - and Konstantin had walked these streets, in times of his youth untainted with witch hunt, youth so pure and devoted to the higher powers, so faithful and sure of the very concept of god’s existence that the passion of this creed had Medved shed a tear. 

Or two. Or more – he wasn’t quite aware, the sunlight like a golden river was streaming through the tears in his one eye, all things light now reminding him solely of Konstantin – a believer who took him for his god, was ready and willing to take him even further – was welcoming him to. 

And Medved never took what he was granted, foolishly entranced watching Konstantin paint, the life of the saints manifesting itself both real and ethereal, a quality of illusionary existence, a wonderment of creation that was not perpetrated through blood and agony, a life that came to be without suffering as its preset intention, a life that promised freedom unknown to the both of them.

Was it the manifestation of his real god, his other god, the martyr? A life Medved couldn’t put his hands on. A once dead god who made him jealous despite his absence, despite Konstantin worshipping him and him alone, and making other people worship him too, with vehement enthusiasm and childish trust.

A trust Medved apparently lost by a simple act of being himself – a jack of all trades, master of none – the dead could dance to his wishes, yet they were hungry mindless creatures – and Medved could not withstand the actual pain of imagining Konstantin be such a bloodthirsty puppet with life drained from his eyes and hands, and the naked bones of his spine seen clearly through his slashed throat.

It was not a throat meant to be slashed, it was not an artist meant to burn out and Medved roared in the twilight falling upon Constantinople, the fresh influx of fears from its citizens invigourating him, making his desires more prominent and all the more hopeless.

It was a throat he would caress blindly, his only eye squeezed shut in sheer bliss as Konstantin went undone under his arms in a show of perfect devotion, a display of worship no other god could even dream of, wanton and perverse as per their strict human morale, foreign and welcome for himself. 

Oh how he would have kissed Konstantin’s pale skin, leaving marks of possession upon him, blemishes he would label as signs of being the chosen one, exquisite bruises upon his fast beating vein on the neck, under his protruding sharp collarbones and down into the golden locks beneath his navel, a string of bites adorning the insides of his thighs as Medved was so going to devour all of him, a blessing from a god no other believer was ever bestowed with.

Konstantin’s screams would have been his best and most emotional prayers, his lifeblood in that incredible wall-shaking voice of his, a voice that commanded crowds – now devoted to him alone, a remote rumble in his body turning into a roar of ecstasy, a pleasure of a god tending to his most devout acolyte.

He would have known something besides pain and unresolved tensions, he would have experienced blessing in its most primal, carnal form. Medved roared because the Midnight roads could only lead him so far as to the past where none of this happened and nobody even suspected it could happen – or should have happened.

***  
They could’ve named this city after Konstantin. Him and Medved by his side unseen yet ever so potent, a vision of apocalypse itself, arriving together in their conquest, a blur of power, a stream of passion flowing endless into the ocean where salt met blood and desire. Konstantin being proclaimed the emperor of souls in need of guidance, the only real worshipper Medved ever had the need for. 

This city would’ve fitted Konstantin’s ambition as Medved would’ve satiated his hunger - in all its sunset splendor, molten copper shining like fresh blood, gold turned dark red with the setting sun, prayers chanted praising Konstantin while he would be coming undone before his god, every night without fault. 

The sun set and the blood ran dry.  
The prayers shushed, the city kept its name and its new meaning to the name, unknown to all and dear to the chaos god.  
An emperor’s city without its emperor, and a nomadic god without his believer, a balance of absence and an empire soon to fall in celebration of this irrevocable emptiness.


End file.
